


Seeking, needing, wanting.

by snarknoir19



Category: Black Panther (2018), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Trigger Warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24511687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarknoir19/pseuds/snarknoir19
Summary: How she deals and who she uses.
Relationships: Natasha Romanov/T’Challa
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Seeking, needing, wanting.

**Author's Note:**

> “Trigger warning” is an understatement here. Please give this a miss if you are sensitive to dominance and submission themes. This grew out of a recent conversation and reminiscence.

She was here. 

Her scent was unmistakable.

That she had broken in again was a forgone conclusion. She would be somewhere in the darkened house having made herself perfectly at home. 

He knew that the key he’d offered her was still laying on the mantel right where she’d placed it. 

He remembered it was a clear night in December. 

“Keys?” She’d said. And quirked a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Have we met?” 

The sex was heated, and slow, and necessary, and then she was gone. It was a month before he’d see her again. 

And he’d understood. The key was an invitation to something she wasn’t comfortable accepting. Not then. Maybe not ever. Keys were about locks, and containment. Commitment. Natasha required neither. Accepted neither. 

And she certainly didn’t require a key anyway, or even permission, to come and go as she pleased. 

T’Challa could admit to himself that the former assassin was always welcome. 

And now? Now she was back. Back from whatever tangled, solo mission she’d undertaken in another effort toward balancing or cleansing her ‘ledger.’ That dark volume of blood red history.

He wondered how many more missions it would take in order for her to clean her conscience, to banish the nightmares, and finally wash her hands of the blood. 

He wondered if she even really believed it possible.  
Some of her missions seemed more like self punishment than making amends.

He dropped his keys in the leather caddy, pulled off his gloves, and scanned the room. Music was playing quietly. Rachmaninov. All the lights were off and the only illumination came from the fireplace in the living room. T’Challa shouldered out of his coat noting the firelight playing on the rich woodwork down the hall. Natasha loved the fire. There were a few nights he’d arrived home to find her sprawled on pillows by the hearth reading. Or gathered up on ‘her’ end of the couch watching television. 

This time she had helped herself to his shower. He could hear the water in the pipes and couldn’t help but imagine her in there. She would have lit the candles. The bathroom door was closed but walls and doors were nothing to senses as keen as the Black Panther’s. And while he couldn’t see her, he also couldn’t help but breathe her in. 

He ignored the citrus body wash and savored that which was purely Natasha Romanov. 

And then, over the water’s spray and the drumming splatter, came softly quiet cursing, gasps of familiar rhythmic, breathless Russian syllables. Becoming more urgent, and feral, and then a taut silence, and into that silence flooded the full essence of her. 

His senses were awash and he felt the brief, insane urge to rip the wall apart to get to her. 

T’Challa turned away, and down the hall, and downstairs to the living room and to the fire where he stood gazing, letting his system relax. 

Rachmaninov’s piano concerto swelled around him. A glance at his music center revealed her interest tonight. Liszt, Rach, Tchaikovsky., Ustvolskaya. The Pasternak was a surprise. But that was Natasha.

Looking down he saw that she’d undressed right here and left her clothes and her weapons in a pile on the hearth. It looked like a crime scene.  
......

The dancing firelight revealed several clues to her mood this evening, beyond the battle tattered garments and discarded weapons. 

Not ransacked but definitely a disarray. Blankets and pillows strewn near the couch. A plate, a bottle (no glass) on the floor near the hearth. 

A book from his library lay near the bottle. Yevgeny Yevshtushenko. He wondered what the Great Siberian Lion might have said to her this evening. 

The most obvious hints were strewn across his desk. 

She’d gotten into his antique throwing knife collection (again). It was one of the things on his ‘don’t mess with that’ list. And she’d deliberately left them scattered (placed?) across his desk (again). 

And he realized with a mix of feelings, that she had come to him tonight in a very specific mood and looking around he decided that he was more than able to oblige. 

The fact that she had staged the scene and ‘started’ without him only added to the intrigue. 

What had you been up to Miss Romanov? What had you done?

The phone on his desk rang and he made his way past her discarded clothing and sat to take the call. 

He thought it might be a useful, momentary distraction from his thoughts of what was likely to unfold here tonight.

T’Challa reclined back in his office chair and pressed a button on his desk. Behind him the floor-to-ceiling curtains slowly drew back to reveal the city of New York glittering like diamonds in the blackness. 

It was Steve. A very excited Steve. A Steve who clearly had an announcement to make and couldn’t let it wait until morning. He and Bucky were making it official, finally. Which would come as a surprise to exactly no one, T’Challa smiled to himself. He had called to discuss having a small ceremony and, apparently, to chat. Steve loved a good chat and, all things considered, T’Challa decided his timing might actually be perfect this evening.

“...Of course I will, and congratulations my friend. Have you chosen a location?” 

The music was briefly raised to an obnoxious level and then lowered. And then again. Tchaikovsky thundered in surges. 

Natasha was apparently out of the shower and ready for him to end the call and give her his attention. She was capable of far greater subtlety he knew but he also knew she could and would be very, very direct at times. She could be unreasonably demanding. 

Particularly of him and of his time. 

They weren’t even in a relationship he told himself and yet she seemed to assume the role when it suited her. When she needed him. He corrected himself. It wasn’t a relationship but a glorified booty call as Scott Lang would say. T’Challa told himself he was fine with the parameters of the ...of their arrangements. And he told himself that he shouldn’t enjoy certain aspects of their connection. He shouldn’t find pleasure in one of the expectations she had of him. He told himself that a few times before. Looking around the room, at her clothing, at his belongings on the desk he realized that this was likely to be one of those times. 

Which confirmed his decision to extend the phone conversation. Perfect timing indeed.

T’Challa listened patiently to the the preliminary wedding plan details, preliminary because he knew they would undergo countless changes over the next few weeks. 

And he listened to Steve complain about Bucky’s irritating (endearing) irreverence. Bucky had, of course, suggested an elopement. 

T’Challa listened because this was a colleague and a true friend but mostly he listened in order to draw out the tension building up in his apartment tonight.

She would demand his attention. He would withhold it from the beautiful spy. At first. 

And while he kept up his end of the conversation his attention was now divided.

Natasha continued to play with the sound system and now Sinatra was extolling the virtues of New York throughout the apartment although at a more considerate volume. He caught her eye as she descended the stairs from his loft wearing only his navy sport coat and nothing else it seemed. 

He followed her every languid movement down to the bottom of the stairs, and at the bottom watched her tuck a strand of red hair behind an ear, draw a breath (nervous?) and then pad barefoot across the hardwood floor to stand at the side of his desk. 

Her eye contact was level. Steady. However...

She was concealing something. There was something hidden beneath the coat. It was apparent in the way she carried herself. The set of her shoulders. Not the way she carried her weapons. That would have been seemless and would have gone without notice. Weapons were an extension of her self really. This was different and her expression was a mixture of uneasiness mixed with anticipation. 

Fascinated, he watched her withdraw her hand from inside his jacket to reveal one of his leather belts. 

T’Challa frowned at that. She didn’t seriously...

Steve chattered on in his right ear about catering and something about gluten.

He watched as she laid the broad leather length down across the scattered antique knives (that she wasn’t supposed to have touched). 

One of his leather belts. It was heavy and broad. It glowed a warm, rich brown in the firelight. 

Sinatra lilted on about ‘vagabond shoes’ and Natasha moved to the window and leaned there gazing out at all of the lives twinkling in the darkness.

He watched her standing there just inside his reach. Hugging the coat closed around her and gazing out the enormous window at the city. Or perhaps she gazed at her own reflection. 

In any case she was flushed and by her scent, still very excited. 

Steve rattled on about possible menu options and reasons for specific decorative accents. He talked about the importance of visual references to each of their pasts. Or else possibly a Mediterranean theme since they both....

T’Challa reached up under the blazer and caressed the smooth swell of Natasha’s hip and noted how she leaned into his touch. 

“I think Salmon would be perfect, Steve. Oh, and by the way; the falcon wing upgrade is nearly ready. Sam should set aside time to acclimate to the increased acceleration. Shuri may have some ideas for his weaponry as well...”

T’Challa decided to up the ante. He would stay on the phone. Deny her his full attention and gauge her response. There was, even now, a tightness around her mouth. 

Now was the time.

T’Challa swiveled his chair so that he was facing the window beside her and when she glanced down he pointed to his empty coffee cup. After a pause and an arched brow, she took it to the kitchen and returned with it refilled. 

Interesting.

She stood before him looking annoyed, and didn’t bother trying to mask it. And he didn’t reach for the full cup either. Instead, he pointed back to the desk. 

Something flashed hotly behind her eyes and she stood glaring back for a beat. And then a shift when he raised his brows and shrugged before looking away. It was up to her. This was her game not his. She came to him. She always came to him. If he was to play then he would amend the rules a bit. 

She looked uncertain and then resolute and then in the next moment, she very deliberately leaned to place it where he pointed. 

Natasha obeyed.

The game was on. 

Steve was in full chatter mode. Clearly relieved to have someone to talk to. T’Challa added the occasional ‘mhm’ and ‘that’s hilarious’ to uphold his side of the conversation. 

He smoothed his hand up the back of her leg to ghost feather lightly over her bare ass. 

And coffee splattered on the glass top surface. 

Confirmation. The game was indeed on. 

“Masidlale ke.” He breathed. (Let us play then).

T’Challa loved that the smooth skin beneath his hand right here was always cooler than the rest of her. Loved that he got to know these things about her. It would be much warmer later. 

However; She had ‘accidentally’ spilled and he hadn’t yet responded. It was his move.

She lingered like that, saying nothing, unmoving, and he reached for her, brushing open the lapel of the jacket. She froze in place and watched his hand draw closer and slowly bit her lip when his thumb and forefinger closed on her left nipple. 

He didn’t caress, didn’t palm her breast. His manner was not soft. He simply pinched.  
Pinched and held and then steadily pulled downward. Natasha winced despite herself and stood firm looking straight ahead, until, after a moment, she slowly lowered herself. He continued to direct her downward until her face was at the edge of his desk. The spilled coffee inches from her nose. T’Challa applied more pressure, slowly, and watched her in profile. She knew what he wanted. It was obvious. Her eyes flicked down to the spill and then up and away. 

She would defy him. 

T’Challa acknowledged her resistance and she inhaled sharply but remained silent otherwise with her lips pressed firmly closed, centimeters from the spilled coffee. 

The dancing firelight played across her features mirrored in the dark liquid surface.

Her breath now rippling her reflection. 

“Yes, she is most assuredly one of a kind.” He answered into the phone.

Chuckling in agreement, Steve moved onto ‘Bucky’s latest antics’ territory and T’Challa decided to keep the conversation going: “Do tell.”

The former spy was breathing more rapidly now. He pulled downward again and she lowered herself further to alleviate the discomfort. 

Silent still. Lips and nose now touching the spilled coffee. T’Challa held her like that for an instant before releasing her. She lifted her face slowly but his hand clamped around the back of her neck. 

Her heightened arousal immediately filled his senses. It was dizzying. 

He did not squeeze at first but simply kept her in place. For a moment. 

And then he did squeeze and her soft gasp was almost lost when Steve’s voice burst into laughter.

“...delivery kid stood there not knowing where to look....”

He applied incrementally more pressure. 

And then more. 

And still more. 

And she parted her lips. 

More pressure and he saw her slowly extend her pink tongue into the spill. He softened his grip but kept her in place while she began a slow lick of the surface. 

Curious to see where she would take this he removed his hand entirely and contemplated the belt she brought over. It would wait. 

There was a blouse on the floor beside him and, cradling the phone with his shoulder, he used it to fasten her hands behind her back. It would of course do nothing if she really wanted her hands free. But of course she didn’t. Not tonight. And it irritated him briefly that he might not ever know why this mood on this night.

Natasha remained kneeling and hadn’t lifted her head.

“...and Bucky, I thought he might wet himself laughing...”

T’Challa, still cradling the phone to his neck, used both hands to open the front of his trousers. 

Natasha turned toward the sound and watched him, eyes locked on his hands. She glanced once over at the desk surface where the belt was draped and then pointedly back to him. 

She drew her tongue across her lips and waited and when he was free, looked up to meet his eyes. 

“That’s hilarious Steve. That reminds me, are we still planning on the team getaway to France next month?”

Natasha glanced again at the belt but he caught her eye and shook his head no. It was what she wanted so he denied her. 

T’Challa nodded instead downward. Once. She held his eye contact while slowly shifting around to face him. 

And she moved closer until she was between his legs and he couldn’t help the deep sigh at the wet warmth when she lowered her mouth slowly down around him. 

T’Challa clicked the phone to speaker mode and set it down on the desk inches from Natasha’s slowly bobbing head. 

“...mostly the art galleries although you know Maria will demand we visit that bakery...”

T’Challa tucked a loose strand of red hair behind her ear. 

“She will definitely appreciate that.” T’Challa answered. “Was it the eclair or the cannoli?” 

He felt the vibration when Natasha hummed something in response. She didn’t stop of course, or alter her pace. T’Challa reached for his coffee and settled back in his chair looking out his windows over the top of her head at the city now swirling in snow. When did that start?

“The eclairs. She said the cannoli were too sweet.”

“Ah yes. Hey, Steve, hold a second..” he shielded the phone and then fisted his free hand in her hair and stopped her at the top of her stroke. She looked confused when he held out his coffee for her to take and she frowned when he whispered “do not spill a drop.” 

She awkwardly gripped the handle and he returned to the conversation but kept his grip in her hair. 

“Sorry Steve, just an annoying office intrusion, what were you saying?”

Natasha glared up at him but remained perfectly still. Her lips a warm, snug ring. She held the coffee cup off to her side. Not spilling a drop. 

T’Challa watched her focus shift to managing both tasks, a wrinkled frown between her eyes as he began guiding her descent ever so slowly. Her eyes now watching the brim of the cup. 

Steve’s voice babbled merrily along on speaker as T’Challa pressed her lower, in the slowest increments, until he felt her lurch softly. The slightest gag reflex. She snapped her eyes to his when he held her there and didn’t let her up. He knew she could breathe fine and so kept himself sheathed to that depth while he focused on Steve’s words. Something about the hotel in France. 

Steve was referring to the Hotel George V. Of course. It was his favorite hotel in Paris. T’Challa felt it was a bit excessive but that was kind of the point he supposed. 

Natasha had adjusted to her tasks. 

He abruptly dipped her head and blocked her airway. Her gag reflex surged and she retched loudly and her eyes flooded. He raised her an inch only and held her there while she worked to control her breathing. She hadn’t spilled the coffee. 

“What was that?” Steve sounded puzzled over the phone: 

“Hmm?”

“I thought I heard..”

“Oh, that’s my night cleaning staff. She’s in the bathroom. I think she’s a bit hung over.”

“...Oh.”

A single fat tear rolled down Natasha’s cheek and joined the saliva dripping from her chin. 

Steve rattled on while T’Challa savored the contrast of sensations. Warm mouth. Saliva wetted skin. 

T’Challa made some observations about the hotel and the view and about calling ahead to ask about the chef. Steve loved that sort of thing he new. 

When Steve jumped in about the number of Michelin stars T’Challa dipped her again and held her longer this time. 

One muted retch.  
Another.  
Another.  
Another.  
Each hunch of her shoulders threatened her balance and made her hand tremble.

When her face reddened he pulled her up an inch and she dry heaved loudly and nearly vomited. It took her longer to compose herself and more tears ran down her face as she sucked in air through her nose. She didn’t spill. 

“What?..that sounds like she’s really sick over there buddy.” Steve’s tinny voice sounded alarmed on the desk beside them. 

“No, you’re totally right. I have a driver standing by to take her home when she’s ready.”

“Good grief that sounds horrible. Poor woman.”

“I should probably go check on her.” T’Challa took the cup from her hand and placed it on the desk. Natasha had regained her composure. 

“Yeah, do that and then let’s talk tomorrow...”

T’Challa was slowly pressing her down now a fraction at a time and when she started to lurch, held her firmly and pushed her slowly downward and when she started to fight him he used his strength to over power her and buried himself fully down her throat. 

Natasha’s eyes had been screwed shut and they suddenly snapped open. He watched her closely trying to pull herself back and saw her struggling to not break free and grab his wrists. 

“T’Challa? You still there?” 

He ignored him. 

Watched her internal struggle. Her trust of him to know her limits. To take her just beyond them. The edge. It’s part of why she came. But there was more. 

And then she panicked, shrugged her hands free, and clutched his arms. And this was part of it. She struck him in the torso. Once, twice, became a drumming of fists. She bumped the desk knocking the phone over. He held her down through her writhing and he waited until he heard her muted squealing. 

“Man I think we’ve got a horrible connection here.. let me move around a bit.” Steve suggested.

The fireplace crackled across the room. A moment longer. She was prying at his wrists. And.. now. He released her. 

She lunged to the side for his waste bin and emptied her stomach violently. Inhaling a great lungful of air she threw up again. 

After it subsided she remained on her knees. Teary eyed and running with mucous. 

“Hey, Listen I’m gotta go. I hope your staff is ok. That really sounds like hell. Call me around noon, huh? Catch ya later buddy.” The line went dead. 

He reached for his handkerchief and gave it to her and waited while she composed herself. He wondered if the game was over and when she remained on her knees he was relieved and for the dozenth time was disappointed in his relief. In the pleasure he drew from this. When she looked up her eyes were blown. 

“Resume.” Was all he said to her. 

He brushed his fingers through the famous (or infamous) red hair and checked in. “How are you feeling ‘Tasha?” He always safety checked although she never wanted him to and could quickly grow quite cross with him, but he couldn’t help it. 

He felt her tongue swirl dramatically in response and she forced her self to try to take him entirely, sliding hotly forward but stopping when her gag reflex made her lurch. T’Challa stroked her hair while she slowed a bit and bobbed more shallow. Her next two attempts ended similarly. T’Challa appreciated her efforts. He always did when they played this game. Her game. 

But now it was time for something more. 

“Goba phezu kwedesika.” He pointed and she followed his gesture. Rising up so that she could bend over the desk. 

The record had ended so he left her for a moment. Picked up the waste bin and set it in the bathroom. Collected a fresh towel and stopped by the turntable. 

Natasha splayed her fingers wide on the cool surface and waited bare assed with the coat flipped up over her lower back. Bare assed to the window and New York behind her. 

He returned with a clean towel for her as classical music drifted through the apartment. 

He stood behind her and reached for the belt she’d brought him and watched her jump when he set it down on the small of her back. 

She was molten. 

This was going to hurt her. It was why she came tonight he reminded himself. She could have gone elsewhere. Could have asked someone else. 

She came to him. His strength. His security. She trusted him. 

The first impact was a surprise and she jumped. His enormous strength was partially why she came. He was not gentle. At all. The music and the crashing of symbols could not hope to cover the cracking impacts. And by the tenth her ass was already the brightest pink. By the 30th she was quite warm to the touch and had lost the ability to hold herself still. By the fortieth he placed a firm hand on her back and tears dotted the desktop. She asked to stop by sixty as her English fell away, replaced by anguished Russian and she sobbed out a broken ‘please’ after fifteen more. 

He dropped the belt at her feet and caressed her carefully and after a while she slowly pushed herself upright and turned into his arms. 

He held her close and listened to her breathing slow down until with a sniff she raised her tear streamed face and pressed a kiss against his neck. 

And she slapped him. Hard.

T’Challa’s hand was around her throat in a flash and she was slammed back against the window and pinned there, gurgling and grabbing at his wrist. She twitched a knee toward his crotch, a warning, which he’d begun to block and then spun her around into a precise hold immobilizing her. 

She could not attack or thrash without injuring herself and he marched her over to his desk before increasing the pressure on her arm until she started slapping the desk and cursing and then finally, in shrill Russian: “Please!” He abruptly released the pressure but kept her facing the desk with one arm pinned behind her back. 

And it was silent again. Through the wetness she saw him pointing at his knife collection. 

With nothing else said, Natasha gathered the antiques from the desk with her free hand and carefully replaced them back into their display case. When the last one was placed and the box closed and locked he released her arm. 

And then when he believed the game was finally over and she had satisfied what it was she’d come for, what she trusted him with, she mumbled a firm demand quietly, still facing away from him. 

They would probably not talk about any of this anytime soon. He knew. This toxic, unhealthy exchange. She might never give him that part of herself. Maybe he was just another mission. An instrument. But then again she might after all. One never knew. 

He watched while she slowly lay her chest to the cold desk and clasped her hands behind her back. 

He was surprised but willing and pressed himself against her where she asked and as tenderly as he possibly could. And did not stop when Russian curses ground out through tightly clenched teeth. 

Firelight danced on discarded, blood stained clothing where innocent and guilty mingled in dark red. While outside the snow swirled and the city lights twinkled. Oblivious and unaware of shrill cries and hot tears that washed nothing away at all.

****************

The next morning.

The phone rang and he made no moves to pick it up - letting it go to message. 

“T’Challa. T’Challa, are you there?”

Silence. His bed was empty. A strand of red hair on his pillow attested to the evening. 

“T’Challa, turn on the TV something’s happened. It looks bad.“

Later. “Ummm. Have you seen… Have you seen Natasha ?“

........

T’Challa turned on the television. It was breaking news.

The ambassador and his wife were dead. It was a bloodbath, Grotesque crimson bodies. Precision knife cuts. Sightless eyes in soulless bodies. 

“T’Challa, whoever it was they used a blade. Sometime yesterday afternoon. Right there inside the damned consulate. There were guards outside the door. And the press is naming her. We’ve got to get her off the streets.”

“I’ll take her home.”

“Look T’Challa, if she did this...”

“They can’t have her Steve. If I they come for her I will meet them. What they start I will finish.”

“T’Challa...”

“Do not be among them my friend.” 

The Panther would hunt.


End file.
